When our light has come
And dispersed
To another crack in the universe;
Somewhere shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with a docile smile
And weary half-shut pupils;

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And devoured by dwindling creases
In bone-white cheeks,

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, crawling
My way through the sleeping bodies
And smokey brick retreats, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Bloated but empty stomachs,

I shall ignore all this, and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures may linger
Of children grasping red balloons
And of husbands
Washing up famished teaspoons,

For this is their retreat, the voices
Of “wake up, wake up” are tired now
And have little reason to compete,

And when I am asked why I stand here,
Waiting on the curb in my damaged demeanor -
I shall say;

“I am unmoored and I am uncrowned,
I have fallen from the cracked marble cliffs
And I have been banished to the ground, do
They want me to ask their questions now
Or shall we tuck ourselves in and go to bed -  

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

And the crowds will reply
In their frayed utterings
And silver-laced mutterings;

“We do not know
The queries you seek, or
Why you pace upon
The edge of the street, alas
We do not know what it is
You seek at all”.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will have to do, it is where
I have made my bed
And where I shall lay too -

My wings are clipped and
My smile is cracked, but
I am not yet dead, only my
Hands appear to bleed red,
Guilty hands that forget
To tow the line
And knead the bread,

Now I sit dipped in the gutter
And I natter and I mutter;

“Where does the Morningstar go
When the gates are closed
And the couples have gone to bed
And all that can be said,

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

These words that I muster
And create,  
The words that I bleed
And paint
Take on the form
Of a twin-headed snake
And they let out a snigger
And a slither, intertwined
And brittle, my
Voice passes on
Thinner than before.

Buskers line the lanes of Dublin
Mirroring the beer taps in the city pubs,
One by one the tourists bustle in
Like grains of rice flowing into cups,

There is a ****** out on these streets
And the marching Garda are in pursuit,
Muffling the young kestrel’s tweets
And the boys who wear butcher suits,

Bodies line the lanes of Dublin,
Cutthroat lanes brushed with blood
Where the brownnoses come rushing in -  
The watershed has burst from the flood,

For, death is sown into these streets
And life has turned quaint in defeat.

She dances in the dark spots
Between the street lights, like
A patient drunkenly twitching
Before an operation,  

There is but a lick of anxiety
In her performance, deprived
Is she by her cruel audience, but
To their defence
They are merely the empty foliage
That sit on each side of the city lane,
Like shadowed guards
Who gleefully imprison her in chains,

Where will she go
After the moon retires and
The trees offer her the key ?

Perhaps, she will follow the stray cat
Down the dimly painted alley, will
She give in to the ***** feline, who  
Beckons her with a fickle whine
And who stares obtusely
With such precise baby-doll eyes,

Or will she simply sink
Into the leaf smothered ground,
Face anchored and stitched
To the pavement, her beauty
Famished and her heart envious
Of the four-pawed beast
Who now dances on her corpse.

Departing from one mechanised coastline
Only to be summoned to my own, I left before
The others had even thought of breakfast, and

On the train, cumulonimbus clouds wedged
Their way into my cranium, and
A fleeting wave of sloth drenched my appetite,

For two hours I was an old man, wrapped
In a red jacket that didn’t belong to me, was
It a gift from a platonic friend -

Loosely it sat, half-worn upon my shoulder
Until my body reclaimed its youth, and
Pride took sovereign, covering up the rest,

That's when I felt it; a slight jab,
A tiny nudge, a brief discomfort, an anchor
Upon my existence, an entity in my jacket pocket,

A tourist squats inside my clothes, clothes
Which I myself hadn’t yet explored, was
I just as unknown to this all - despite

All this, despite the uneasy riddle
Spewing from my chest, I was all too eager
To confront the temptress in my pocket,

Which hand will volunteer, the right
Or the left - a modest nudge should do the trick,
Oh what is it, what is it that lies in my pocket,

A hardened form of ambiguity, tucked
Away into the corner of the fabric, like
A faceless beast retreating into its den,

What is it, what is it that hides away
In my pocket - a shell, a quaint cream shell
No bigger than my thumb,

What a fool I was, stunned
By a fragment of seaside propaganda, and
Yet I do not concede shame, perhaps

I was justified to fear this shell, should
I crush it - maybe then my worries will drift off,
Like an ebb and flow temporarily retiring,

Will my hands suffice - should I use
My left or my right - which
One can break the skin - my left

Hand answers, and small splinters
Of serrated seashell scatter in my palm, it
Is only a chip, alas, it is only a chip,

Now that I have struck, it has become
Unbreakable, and I am certain
It shall never untether from my home,

Stubborn and unchanged, haunting
The inner lining of my clothes, dampening
The fragility of what lies beneath, when

Will the sunshine revisit, the warmth
I felt when I first put on this jacket - it’s
All frozen now, starting with the sea.

Departing from one mechanised coastline
Only to be summoned to my own, I left before
The others had even thought of breakfast, and

On the train, cumulonimbus clouds wedged
Their way into my skull, and
A fickle layer of arthritis glassed over my skin,

For two hours I was an old man, wrapped
In a red jacket that didn’t belong to me, perhaps
It was a gift from a platonic friend,

It loosely sat, half-worn upon my shoulders
Until my body reclaimed its youth, and
My pride decided to cover up the rest,  

That's when I felt it; a slight jab,
A tiny nudge, a brief discomfort, a weight
On my existence, an entity in my jacket pocket,

A tourist squats inside my clothes, clothes
Which I myself hadn’t yet explored, was
I just as unknown to this all - despite

All this, despite the uneasy riddle
Spewing from my chest, I was half-ready
To confront this temptress in my pocket,

Which hand would volunteer, the right
Or the left - or perhaps
I shall attack the outer fabric with a hearty press,

The latter is what I shall do, a tiny
Nudge back should do the trick, oh
What is it, what is it that lies in my pocket,

A hardened form of ambiguity, tucked
Away into the corner of the fabric, like
A faceless beast retreating into its den,

What is it, what is it that hides
In my pocket - a shell, a quaint cream shell
No bigger than my thumb,

What a fool I was, stunned
By a fragment of seaside propaganda, and
Yet I am not ashamed, maybe

I was justified to fear this shell, should
I crush it - maybe my worries will drift away,
Like the tide temporarily retiring,

Will my hands suffice - should I use
My left or my right - which
One can break the skin - my left

Hand answers, and small splinters
Of seashell scatter in my palm, it
Is only a chip, alas it is only a chip,

Now that I have struck, it feels
Unbreakable, and I am certain it shall
Now permanently reside in my pocket,

Stubborn and unchanged, haunting
The inner lining of my clothes, dampening
The fragility of what lies beneath, when

Will the sunshine return, the warmth
I felt when I first put on this jacket - it’s
All frozen now, starting with the sea.

When the kettle
Has finished and boiled
And the Sunday eggs
Have been spoiled,

When the man who begs
Dissolves into the street
And the magpies
Squeak their last tweet,

Will they still need me
And will they still see me?

When the young boys  
Have been found dead  
And the obituaries
Have been read,

When all the red berries
Have sunk and wilted
And the groom
Has succumbed and jilted,

Will I find the end
And will I be whole again ?

Nowadays I find myself
In a landscape dominated
By farmer’s fields, they
Stretch from the country lanes
To the looming walls of oak
Where candidly they sit side-by-side,
All neatly laid out;

Eager for my foreign feet
To parade about, and
To dent the ground
In heavy, deep bruises
That one day
Will be overflowed by rainfall
Or, perhaps, dug further
By another stranger’s affection.

I am anchored to these fields
Of farmers who all look the same
And perhaps they are the same, all
Pushing for bigger harvests
And meatier offsprings, they
All follow the seasons
Like a blind man with his hand
Strapped to a gear stick, they
Are slaves to nature, and yet
I have not seen them comfort a tree
Or kiss their fields in which
They hope to nurture and reap.

But they are not to blame, no
They are not to blame,  

It is my unmoored conscious
That pollutes the soil
And whispers to the birds
And the unmoved snails,

“Go home now
And burrow away, please
Discard all your love
At the hollowed out trunk
On your way out”,

It’s not my fault
They only have
Fallen branches
Mixed with
Dried out leaves
To conceal all this
Unwanted tenderness
And grief, it’s
Not my fault they
Aren’t loved by
The farmers anymore,

So, why do I let them
Ruin my country walk ?

Why do I find myself
Chatting to the berries
That smother my shoes
When I show them
No remorse ?

I should really ask
The farmers what they
Think of all the ******, but
I do not think they shall
Let me walk on their
Fields again, I shall be
Barred from the
Country lanes and
From the homes
Of all my friends, my
Footprints shall be
Covered over
In sheets of ****** grass
And newly-budded flowers
So that my crimes
Are forgotten and masked.